A Dance of Snow and Frost
by Shadow-hunter93
Summary: He stands on the snow, endless white stretching in all directions. The Wind howls and whips around the lone form, eager to see what its eternally young charge has planned. A breath, then he begins.


**I know it's been a long time since my last update. I lost my inspiration with the stories I had. No worries, they're not abandoned. I just need some inspiration. Anyways, this came to me while I was watching some ROTG videos on YouTube. I popped open Microsoft word and wrote this in one go. I might make more out of it later if I get inspired, any ideas you might have are welcome. For now this is my first non-naruto fic and my first one-shot. Enjoy.**

A dance of snow and frost

He stands on the snow, endless white stretching in all directions. The Wind howls and whips around the lone form, eager to see what its eternally young charge has planned. A breath, then he begins, a wave of his left hand sends up a flurry of snow. It takes the shape of a wolf, howling along with the wind as it rushes across the plain before bursting into snowflakes. A smile quirk at his lips, before turning slightly bitter. This won't do, he can do better than this. Another gesture, bigger this time, a pack of snow rushes down a hill turning into a pack of wolfs on the way. More movements and the pack begin to run in formations, leaping, charging and howling.

Now he begins to move his feet, quick bursts of snow fly into the air forming trees, rocks and bushes. The wolfs race through this frozen forest, between trees, over rocks and through the bushes. The smile is more content now, the Wind flies through leafs of snow. The eternal boy stops for but a moment before starting a new, he begins to dance. The wolfs blur together, howls turns into a roar. The Wind cuts the trees near their roots, as they fall they turn to flakes getting caught in the Wind at it soars past, as if covering new thin wings.

Gone are the wolfs and the forest, left in their wake are majestic beings of myth. Shades of white and blue glides over these creatures, the light of the full moon catching in their leathery wings. The roar of the dragons compliments the howling Wind; their breaths are not fire but blizzards. On and on the boy moves, spins and twists and bursts in this special dance. The Wind spirals outwards, soaring higher to see what else the spirit has in mind. The movements ebb and flow into each other, his eyes wide open with child-like glee. Scenes out of fairy tales come to life on this empty plane.

One moment the snow takes the shape of people dancing like in a ballroom, before it glides into animals of both fantasy. Battles and play, ancient and present, all blending into one another as the winter child keeps spinning. The Wind sings through the valleys, helping along the snow for its charge. So unlike what he makes near the humans. There he makes due with rolling drapes of snow, there he limits details to sheets of ice, all of this carefully crafted, all of this magnificent, yet none of it what he longs to create for all to see.

Here he can create, the forms are ever changing and yet each is so detailed one would think they were alive. This is his art, this is the beauty he can bring, but never does. For unlike painted spheres, and carved wood, this can hurt. These scenes of wonder would steal your last breath, these figures would chill a mortal to the bone. Out here in this desert of snow it is safe to create, no one would ever be harmed by the creations here. For no one would ever see them.

These would be irrefutable proof, this would make them believe he was real. All these years in solitude, ended I within moments, if only they could see. A tear trickles down, for all the suffering, all the longing. For a moment the solitude would be ended, true, but then those who had seen would perish from the cold and the loneliness would claim him again. For the cold winds would not affect him, he was the winter child. Neither would warmth touch him, not his skin and not his core.

He may not be affected by the cold of the wind, but the years of being invisible has left a chill so deep his bones feel like the ice he brings when he glides across water. These creations, his only companions save the wind. One might wonder what good these creations, this proof, would do if there is nobody to witness it. But there is, these creations are his proof, proof of existence, proof of Life. These ethereal forms dancing with the Wind are his proof to himself of his existence. This dance he has done countless times throughout nearly three hundred years of existence, is for him. The Wind the sole witness to the wonders he creates. The Man in Moon a silent observer as he has always been.

This is his art, this is his proof, this is his element.

This is Jack Frost.


End file.
